The Black Paintings
by queenmab-scherzo
Summary: Mitchell grows tired of his desolate lifestyle with Herrick. When he meets Josie, he's immediately inspired-by either love or hunger.


**Summary:** "the uneasiness of spirit, the indefinable passion, the melancholy, the aimless joys he felt even before seeing his beloved..."

**Author's note:** Lots of blood and violence. Sexual content. I do not own any of the characters, I just do horrible things to them.

* * *

**I. Rêveries – Passions**

* * *

_Two Old Men Eating Soup  
_

She wasn't the first girl to complain about the dark when spending the night. Several windows, stretching almost from the floor to the ceiling, lined one wall of the hotel suite, and a handful of switches clustered in every corner of the room, evidence of abundant artificial lighting. Mitchell kept the curtains drawn at all hours. Until the petite brunette on his arm started whining, he'd forgotten the electricity entirely. He rolled his eyes when she turned her back but conceded to light a small desk lamp in the corner. She didn't press the issue, perhaps because he made a point of distracting her with a drink.

"This is good wine," the girl said, eyeing Mitchell through her lashes. "Why would you break it out for little old me?"

"Haven't got anyone else to share it with," Mitchell confessed. He lounged back in the wing-backed armchair, toed off his finest shoes, and propped a foot in her lap. He caught her quick smile before she turned away to hide it.

"What about your friends?"

Mitchell's mind went blank. Herrick was holed up in a front room of their suite. Maybe talking business. He hardly ever invited Mitchell to such talks, thankfully. He glanced toward the door and licked his lips.

"Not your boss, silly," the girl's voice dragged Mitchell back to the present. "Your friends. There must be lads you spend time with. Grab a drink or catch a game or ... whatever it is you do for fun."

That brought a deep laugh to Mitchell's chest. "I'm having fun now," he said.

Before she finished her first glass, most of her clothes were gone and they'd made it to the bed, where she wound around Mitchell's lap. She kissed fast and feverishly, and he let her. The heartbeat accelerating under his fingertips guided his tempo.

Mitchell pulled back just enough to suck in a breath. The girl's lips swelled pink and desperate against his and her pulse rippled just under their surface. A breathy moan formed under his tongue. She responded immediately, claiming his lips again, unbuttoning his shirt, and slipping it off his shoulders.

Articles of clothing fluttered to the floor one at a time. Mitchell made no effort to hurry. He let his lips linger on her neck, gently pulling marks through her skin on each side; he peppered her shoulders and her collarbone until a constellation shone across her breasts.

He only paused when she reached between them and gave him a long, meaningful look that begged to move faster. Mitchell's eyes, irises stretched taught, roamed her heaving chest and took in the rest of her body. He captured her waist with one hand and wound the other into the hairs at the base of her neck. He leaned in, pressed a cheekbone against her temple, and whispered, "turn around."

Her eyes lit with interest."Turn over?" she complained, though without much conviction. "But then I won't be able to _see_ you." Her breath steamed against his jaw.

"That's alright," he countered, his voice dipping into a baritone, "you won't be able to see at all when I'm done with you."

She giggled in that wanton, illogical way that offers no argument.

Mitchell bent her over the bed and received no complaints. Nestled face-first into the sheets, she couldn't interfere while he ran his tongue along her spine and between her ribs every time she gasped. He made his way up to that terrific bone that protrudes at the base of the neck, pausing to fit it between his teeth and gnaw an innocent bruise there.

A long, high moan snaked across the sheets and Mitchell's chest rumbled with a knowing chuckle. And with that, as if bursting back to life, he slid both hands around her chest and yanked her up against him. He ignored her broken, satisfied cry. With a flare of indefinable passion, he stretched her neck back and sank his canines into the fattest artery he could find.

Her voice cracked and trailed off in a wordless whine.

Mitchell held her against her chest while the last breaths shuddered in her lungs. Fruitless spasms wracked her body and Mitchell drank them all in, He swallowed, the familiar heat stinging the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. Fingers of blood trickled down her torso in perfect symmetry, connecting his purpled bite-marks and outlining her figure.

When he came up for air, Mitchell gasped and nearly choked on a mouthful of blood. He buried his face in her hair while he caught his breath. Then he took an elbow in each hand and dragged the body backwards across the room. He draped the girl over a creamy chaise lounge so that her murky eyes stared at the ceiling and her arms bent grotesquely over her head.

He was about to turn away when something compelled him to double-take; to scan the length of her lifeless form and really take her in-visually-for the first time. She wasn't beautiful. Her nose was too long and her eyes too small. Mitchell had been around long enough to meet more captivating women than this one but something about her kept him looking. She was perky, as if tightly packed with a secret energy even with her blood stilled and her limbs cooled.

Mitchell traced her bottom lip with his thumb and felt a swift pang of loss. His forehead creased; he considered the risk of redeeming that loss and igniting Herrick's temper, but in the end, he figured Herrick would at least allot them one night of privacy. Thrilled with lust and the rush of excitement fueled by deceit, he lifted his own forearm and bit down there.

He winced at the bitter taste and gave his wrist a squeeze. He trembled ever so slightly, and the twin threads of blood scribbled nonsense down to his elbow.

The door creaked and Mitchell spun, panic flooding his already over-charged system.

Herrick was blurred and grey against the stark crimsons and whites that splashed the room. He went in and out of focus as Mitchell stared at him in mild shock.

Mitchell parted his lips but all that came out was a soft sigh and a thin line of blood down his chin. Herrick's gaze wandered down Mitchell's body and slid across the woman stretched between them. Her skin had paled so that she blended into the eggshell cushion of the lounge, one unbroken cut of marble. The lines of fresh blood shone harsh along the lengths of her body.

"_The Nude Maja,_" he breathed, so softly that Mitchell wondered if he'd spoken at all. An octave lower and twenty degrees colder, he added, "what are you doing?"

Mitchell swallowed and glanced between the wounds on his forearm.

Suddenly Herrick's fingernails were in Mitchell's shoulders. He felt his knees buckle before his head snapped to the side and pain erupted in the side of his face. His head felt as if it gently detached from his shoulders and floated on a heavy haze.

He lifted himself onto his elbows and felt as if he were leaning over a cliff. As he slowly resurfaced, he became aware that Herrick was shouting, mid-rant. Insults, mostly. Mitchell distinctly heard _no recruits_. He felt his cheeks stretch back and laughter wanted to start in his chest but he coughed through his teeth, "Jealous?"

That earned him a swift kick across the face. He couldn't see straight and that's what released the giggling.

Herrick's face filled his line of vision. "_Don__'__t_ get up," he hissed.

"No. This is fine," Mitchell slurred, squeezing his eyes shut and listing to one side. Pain lanced through his cheekbone. He eased back onto the floor and raised a trembling hand to the side of his face; the rough stubble there scratched his fingertips, but his cheek felt numb. He groaned.

"When you stop crying about it," Herrick said, "we'll have a drink. That'll make you feel better."

He crossed the room to attend the woman's body. Each of his footsteps rattled through Mitchell's skull.

—

Herrick's kill was efficient and unrefined. Seth bled out quickly.

Mitchell didn't like to watch until the body stopped moving. His lids felt heavy, weighed down by an uneasiness of spirit. He kept an eye out around the corners, all rounded for the safety of conscience, but there could have been an audience and he wouldn't have much to say. He leaned against the brick as the scenario played out across his mind. He was the magician's assistant or a the sideshow freak or the Greek chorus to Herrick's deus ex.

He wasn't sure if he was his own creation or Herrick's.

He turned back down the alley and glared into the shadows. This kid, this nobody, this Seth, twitched and coughed on a mouthful of blood and seized at Herrick's feet, sending a pop can and an empty bottle of Beck's skittering across the concrete.

"I thought you said no recruits."

Herrick straightened slowly and faced Mitchell. He swiped the corner of his mouth with a bloody thumb. "You want a taste."

Mitchell felt at the tips of his teeth with his tongue. "I'm not hungry."

Herrick took a long look at the sagging body draped over his toes. His nice shoes. He'd make Mitchell clean them later. "Fine," he breathed. "Fine, you're right."

"I'm just saying."

"Go get the car started. I'll clean this up."

Mitchell obeyed. It was four blocks of crisp autumn wind and blues dragging down doorsteps and a trickle of meaningless laughter from open doors of pubs. He didn't like these streets. He should, or short of liking he should appreciate them for their anonymity and redundancy and inambition, but the taste of mediocrity stuck dull to his tongue and coated his throat with a need for less of the world at once. He thought maybe living through so many colors was beginning to wash them together.

He slouched into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. The rumble of the engine was altogether expected and familiar.

Herrick was waiting outside the alley. He had wiped his face and his hands clean of blood but the dull grey of red at nighttime still clung to his cuffs and his collar and stained his leather shoes. For a long time Herrick made no move toward the car. He considered his handkerchief, now faintly pink instead of the spotless white he'd pulled out of his suitcase that morning, and tossed it into a rubbish bin. Then he peered into the rubbish bin.

Mitchell rolled down the window. "Okay? Can we move on?"

Herrick gave no sign that he'd even heard Mitchell. He groaned and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and rubbed at a pain at the base of his skull.

He started at the sound of the passenger door opening. Herrick took his seat ungracefully and yanked the door shut with a rattle that told of rust painted over.

Mitchell stared at him, frowning, while he picked his teeth and checked his pockets for—god knows what.

"Yes? Good?" Herrick asked without looking up. "Are we off?"

"Where's the body?" Mitchell prodded.

Herrick's hands went still and he glanced over Mitchell's shoulder. "I took care of it."

There was a beat of silence before Mitchell scoffed and threw the engine into gear.

—

The chase wasn't so much a chase as a seduction and a lie. A "chase" implied that both parties knew what they were getting into and that the rabbit had any chance in hell. Mitchell didn't like the chase. He liked cornering the rabbit.

"D'you know why vampires bite necks?" he said. He could feel all the syllables grate against his throat.

"You're all sneaky predators who are only in it to seduce poor, innocent victims," he spat at Mitchell's feet.

"No, no, no," Mitchell sniggered. "We bite necks because it's efficient. How fast do you think a girl would bleed out if I bit her in the fucking ankle?"

"What, no foot fetish?"

Mitchell ignored him. "You see, we don't like to work hard. We're a pretty single-minded lot. Any guesses where my mind is right now?" he rumbled and bit down on his tongue. The man shook his head once, a quick twitch, as if trying to send off a mosquito. Mitchell smirked.

He was easy enough to capture and subdue. Before he could run, Mitchell grabbed him from behind and bound an arm around his waist, holding him flush against his body.

The man struggled, as most do. He jerked and threw elbows and howled when Mitchell wrapped a hand around his throat. But Mitchell maintained control and pressed his lips to the man's ear to speak in a low voice. In every vowel, he tasted salt and the soft whiskers behind his jaw. "Not that I don't like it rough—"

The man bucked in his grip.

"—but this is going to happen, either way," Mitchell whispered. He cocked his neck to avoid the back of the man's head as it swung for his cheekbone.

"I'm just looking for your biggest vein, love," Mitchell whined and tightened his hold. He could feel the pulse flutter between his fingers; he could feel the hard, desperate swallow. Every tendon and artery etched a plea into his palm. Mitchell gasped, spicy and wet. "_Found it_."

The man had a moment to shout before losing his voice. Mitchell clasped his hand in thick blond hair, thrust his teeth below the jawline, and pried open the pulse-point. He dug a searing path from his Adam's apple to the jut of a collarbone, then flinched away from the spray. He held the man at arm's length and emblazoned his scarlet sigil across the window panes.

Mitchell panted, pulling the body against him and riding out its last convulsions, and his insides churned. The blood flow slowed to a gentle stream. Keeping his eyes up, he ran his tongue along one of the gashes. The spattered window mesmerized him, long streaks of blood licking the glass like flame. Mitchell had heard once that the hottest part of a fire is the blue kernel in the center, and the little spits of red around the edges are the coldest. How unfair it is, then, that no matter how many times he aims for the bluest veins, all that ever comes out is red.

The blood of his victims once razed his senses to the ground and ruined the thousand clouds between his ears until he was all euphoric nonsense saturated with deep colors and outlined in vibrant sound. Where had those days gone? Mitchell stared dazedly at the window panes now, and it all looked chalky and washed-out and the blood was nothing more than a sagging blemish. If he didn't know better the stain and the peeling paint and the rain against the glass could have all been the same.

He hadn't had a drink or even time to consider recruiting before Herrick arrived. His footsteps fell heavy and slow over Mitchell's shoulders. They looked down at the body together where it stretched spread-eagle below the window so that it was lit by a faint light, pinked by the blood-stained glass.

"You are an artist," Herrick breathed.

Mitchell tilted his head and squinted at the window again, and didn't see anything but a fading bruise patched to the background; the dark grey panes and smudged taupe walls and the bloody pattern splashed across them in nothing more than a dull copper blush. He blinked lazily and didn't know what to think about, but surely it ought to be decisive.

Before Mitchell could protest, they had transferred the body into the en suite, folding it into the bathtub and fastening the drain. Bit useless considering the spectacular mess Mitchell had made in the front room. They returned to the big red window, purpling like a bruise in the late-afternoon rainlight, and considered cleaning up, but vampires are lazy, after all. And they tell the truth sometimes.

"You can sleep here," Herrick offered.

Mitchell grimaced and scanned the empty hall, dumbfounded. "Here? Where 'here'? On the _floor_?" He looked over Herrick's shoulder at the bedroom, the king-sized bed and its thick white comforter. They'd splurged on the hotel, paid for a fully furnished suite and everything, even the door separating the entryway and its two hard-backed chairs from the lavish master retreat.

Herrick shook his head and made a sharp "tsk" in the back of his throat. For a beat, he and Mitchell glared at each other. Then he shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it to Mitchell, who clumsily caught one sleeve. His frown deepened, eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle.

"Have a pillow," Herrick explained shortly. "Or a blanket. You'll be fine."

This was ugly, Mitchell had slept worse. There were no blinds on the window or any treatment at all but a limp lace trim so he rooted himself behind the wood chairs and faced the opposite wall and wadded up Herrick's coat to use as a pillow and hoped it would wrinkle overnight.

He woke up to sound of the heavy door unlocking. The shower started in the next room. Mitchell vaguely wondered if Herrick emptied the tub before getting under the water.

Groggy and stiff, he stretched and rolled over. Every elbow and hip and knee and every bone in his spine knocked against the hard wood floor and a fat button dug into the back of his skull. He scratched his scalp. His curls would need a trim soon if he wanted to look presentable.

He squinted at the window and the unkind morning light, shading his eyes with one hand and shoving the chair out of his view with the dull grate of wood-on-wood.

At first it was like a wall of harsh sunlight and Mitchell had to blink rapidly and tuck the pain behind his eyes just to see. He'd never woken up in a church before—hadn't been in one since the turn of the century, as a matter of fact—but it must be something like this, like lifeless color and a heavy weight pressing in on the skull.

The stains on the window had dried hard and rusted to a ruddy brown.

Mitchell groaned and pulled the coat over his face and waited to hear the shower squeak off before getting up from the floor.

Author's note: i plan on posting lots of fun extra info and inspiration on tumblr. My URL is queenmab-scherzo.


End file.
